The Definitions of a Father
by ashlyns
Summary: Through the years, Dean has defined his father in many different ways...Dean's POV on his father and life between the age of 3 and the events of Devil's trap. Oneshot


_-Thanks so much to Carocali for being my awesome Beta and another thanks to everyone who reads and reviews!_

_-This story begins when Dean is 3 and goes all the way to Devil's Trap. _

**The Definitions of a Father**

**Daddy Dad-ee**

1. A diminutive of Dad 2. An informal term for a father; probably derived from baby talk.

"_Daddy!"_

"_Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Now Dean, go!"_

When you were three, your Daddy was the person who towered over you(;) set the rules, cast his shadow over your small little frame and scolded you in his soft, yet booming voice about walking across Mommy's carpet with your muddy sneakers on.

When you were three, your Daddy was the person who tried to teach you how to throw a football. He took your hands in his and positioned the brown faux-leather between your little palms, placing your fingers between the bright white strings. Somehow, even though you were only three, you wanted that moment to last forever. You couldn't wait for your football to look like his…the one he and grandpa threw around in their back yard when Daddy was little…all worn and grass stained like your favorite pair of jeans that Mommy threw away. And when that football didn't make hit its mark, or when you missed it as it sailed gently towards you, Daddy didn't scold you. He simply laughed and tackled you onto the ground, his fingers roaming over your stomach as he made growling noises, barely heard over your squeals of uncontained laughter.

Because Daddy made you laugh. Daddy made you laugh so hard you'd cry; which made him laugh even harder. And you loved his laugh because it enlightened you. It elevated you.

The day that older boy next door stole your pop, the one Daddy had taken you out to buy, Daddy's smile made you feel better. He reminded you with a simple look that there was no bully who _could_ defeat you, and nothing out there that could harm you. Of course, this confidence earned you a punch in the nose the next time the bully found you, Pepsi in hand(,) as you played on the sidewalk.

When you were three, Daddy was the one who always brought you to his work when Mommy was shopping. You'd sit on his lap and watch his partner laughing and talking with Daddy as he worked on the new cars some customers had brought in. You didn't bother learning what breaks or engines or fuel lines were because it didn't matter anyway. Cars were for big boys, and you were more interested in your toy Impala then the real one in the parking lot.

When you were three, Daddy read you happy stories of knights who saved the day, and rescued princesses while riding in on big black horses. The knight was a slayer of dragons and Daddy always embellished on the blood and guts until Mommy's gentle 'Ehm ehm' from the doorway made him stop. He never talked about the knight and princess kissing because you'd always squeal and make a face when he did. Although he'd told you someday you wouldn't mind. You'd known he was lying because that was just gross.

When you were three, Daddy taught you everything including all the songs he knew. He'd let you listen to the radio as he drove you to pre-school and gave you your first appreciation for music. The day you were able to repeat almost all of the words to Blue Oyster Cult's _Don't Fear the Reaper_ he high-fived you and bought you ice cream.

When you were three, your Daddy sat you down and explained what the role of an older brother was. He'd told you the responsibilities of looking out for your little sibling, of teaching him or her how to play games and ride a tricycle, even though you still hadn't mastered the skill yourself. He filled your imagination with visions of what your baby brother or sister would be like when they were born and all the things you'd do with them. You could hardly wait until your baby was old enough to play with you and the next few months seemed like years. That was, until Peter Adams down the block got a dog and you forgot all about the little life growing inside your Mommy's tummy.

When you were three, Daddy would tuck you in, hand you your teddy bear and tell you to 'Look brave, dude. There's nothing in the dark' and you believed him, because Daddy never lied.

And in the dark, as you watched the shadows move across your bedroom window and held your little teddy close, you knew you were safe. Because Daddy still sat in the chair by your bed until you fell asleep, and nothing would happen to you as long as Daddy was in the room.

**Dad Dah-d**

1. Father 2. A male parent 3. A man who begets, raises or nurtures a child 4. A man who takes responsibility of his child or children.

"_I don't know what to do. I need your help_, Dad."

When you were twelve, your Dad was the person who towered over you; set the rules, cast his shadow over your lanky frame and scolded you in his soft, yet booming voice about the ghost that threw you into the wall and cornered your brother in the bathroom.

When you were twelve, your Dad was the person who tried to teach you how to throw knives. He took your hands in his and positioned the worn, brown leather handles between your fingers. Somehow, even though you were only twelve, you wanted this moment to last forever. You couldn't wait until you hit the bull's-eye on the brand new target, because then Dad would praise you, like he did when you learned to shoot the center of the ace of spades. But when that knife didn't find its mark and sailed right over the bull's-eye for the third time in a row, you simply heard a deep, disappointed sigh. 'Focus, Dean. If you can't hit it now, how do you expect to with a moving target?' And that was your praise. That was your acknowledgement.

Because Dad made you cold. Dad made you so cold you cried, but he never saw it, because you hid your tears. Dad didn't laugh any more. Dad hadn't laughed since Mom died. So you laughed for him. You cracked jokes for him. The humor kept you sane, and reminded you of when you rolled in the grass when you were three, laughing.

The day that older boy at the corner store took your bag of peanut M&M's, the ones Dad had given you money to buy, Dad's frown made you feel worse. He reminded you with a single disappointed look that there was no bully who _should_ be able to defeat you. Of course, this earned you a punch in the nose the next time the bully found you, M&M's in hand, as you walked past the Adult video store and decided to pick a fight with him simply for the hell of it.

When you were twelve, Dad was the one who brought you to Pastor Jim's, Caleb's and Joshua's to go gun shopping. You'd sit beside him and watch the older men talk with Dad as he worked on polishing the knives with holy water; discussing new and improved ways of hiding the weapons in the trunk. You already knew what brakes and engines and fuel lines were because you'd learned when you were five. The Impala was the most important thing you owned. It got you from town to town, job to job and hospital to hospital. Not knowing the parts of the car was like not knowing the finer points of credit card fraud.

When you were twelve, Dad gave you books on demons and ghosts and religion. These books had no knights and princesses, just death and reality. When Dad told hunting stories, as though he were a knight in shining armor, riding to the rescue in his big black Impala, he'd embellish on the blood and guts until Sammy's gentle 'Ehm ehm' from the doorway made him stop. Sammy was only eight, after all. On your birthday he gave you a porn magazine instead of 'the talk'. Little did he know, you'd been watching adult movies since you were ten.

When you were twelve, Dad taught you Latin protection spells and purification rights. He told you to 'Turn off that damn racket!' as he drove you to school and didn't appreciate your taste in music. The day you began singing the words to Blue Oyster Cult's _Don't Fear the Reaper_ loudly while doing dishes, he smacked you upside the back of the head and growled that Sammy was trying to study and he was looking for new cases. If you wanted to 'Make so much damned noise, do it when no one else is around.'

When you were twelve, your Dad no longer needed to sit you down and explain what the role of an older brother was. He didn't have to tell you the responsibilities of looking out for your little brother; of teaching him how to hold a shotgun and aim a cross bow, even though you still hadn't mastered the skill yourself. He filled your imagination with visions of what would happen to your baby brother if you let your guard down even for a second. He didn't realize that you didn't need to be told because you'd seen what could happen. The night you carried your little brother from your burning house, you realized the weight of your responsibility. And when the Shtriga attacked, you swore nothing would ever touch your brother again.

When you were twelve, Dad stood by the doorway, going through the nightly safety check lists, 'windows salted, doors locked, crosses up, protection' while you tucked yourself in. He'd hand you your hunting knife and tell you to "Look brave, dude. That thing might be coming back tonight.' And you believed him, because Dad never lied.

And in the dark, as you watched the shadows moveacross your bedroom window and held your hunting knife close beneath your pillow, you knew you were safe. Because Dad had taught you well, and he was just down the hall. Nothing would happen to you as long as Dad was around.

**Sir sur**

1. A respectful or formal term of address used to a man 2. A title of respect for some notable person 3. Formal and lacking emotion or closeness.

"_Yes sir."_

When you were twenty-three, 'Sir' was the person who towered over you; set the rules, cast his shadow over your tall, thin frame and scolded you in his soft, yet booming voice about keeping your car clean and your stolen credit cards in check.

When you were twenty-three, 'Sir' was the person who taught you to fight on your own. You didn't know how to throw a football, but the knives were a snap. The ghost of a memory took hold of you every time you aimed at the whether worn target across the yard, the bull's-eye punched away from the paper leaving only a gap in its wake…a memory of when he took your hands in his and positioned the worn, brown leather handles between your fingers. Even though you were only twenty-three, you felt like that memory was pushing to the surface from hundreds of years back, because 'Sir' hadn't held your hands in years. You didn't look at him then as he watched you hit the bull's-eye; a slight smile on his aging, lined face as the knife sailed through the paper and sunk with a muffled _thwack _into the brown fence behind it. He no longer had to tell you to focus because hitting a still target was far too easy. Your praise and acknowledgement was his silence as he continued watching, eyes indifferent at your cockiness.

Because he made you cocky. He made you so damned cocky you had no tears left to cry, because he never saw it; because you hid your pain. Your cockiness was a mask to hide what you really felt. He didn't love you; he hadn't in twenty-three years. You pushed and pushed to make him proud and when you knew you could never achieve it, you made yourself proud for him. You didn't laugh anymore; hadn't in years. Your humor made others laugh and forced a smile to your lips but deep down it was hollow and desolate. Because the humor reminded you of when you rolled in the grass when you were three, laughing.

The day that old biker dude jumped you at a roadside bar and took your case of beer, the one 'Sir' had given you a stolen credit card to buy, His swearing and cussing made you surge with anger. He reminded you, with colorful words and the way he none-to-gently cleaned up the wounds on your face, that there was no one who _could_ defeat you but _him_. Of course, this earned the biker a few punches in the nose and a multitude of broken ribs when you marched back to the bar and took the half drunken bottles of beer from beside his bleeding body. Handing them to Dad made you feel better then breaking the guy's nose ever could.

When you were twenty-three, 'Sir' was the one who left you at Pastor Jim's, Caleb's and Joshua's while he headed off to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what that he didn't want you to see. You'd sat alone at the table, researching your next case while one of his friends babbled on and on about this or that. You could have cared less what they said, because all you could do was think of what happen if 'Sir' got injured on a hunt and you weren't there to save him. Sometimes you'd go outside and busy yourself with the Impala he had left to you. You already knew how to fix the brakes and engine and fuel lines because you'd had to learn. Mechanics were expensive and the need for one was outweighed by the need for money. The Impala was the most important thing you owned. It not only got you from town to town, job to job and hospital to hospital. It is the only one you could talk to about how afraid and lonely you really were because it was your constant. It was the only one that never left you behind. Not having the Impala was like not having a piece of your soul.

At twenty-three, 'Sir' no longer gave you books on demons and ghosts and religion. He expected you to know them by heart and when you didn't, the internet was faster. At night you shared hunting stories and you were the knight that rode to the rescue in your big black Impala. There was no armor; you could prove that with all your scars. You could talk all night if there wasn't someone there to walk into the room(;) hair tussled and eyes puffy from lack of sleep to startle you with a gentle but annoyed 'Ehm ehm' and make you go to bed. On your birthday he gave you a wad of cash to enjoy anyway you wanted. You spent it on a night at the bar and woke up the next morning beside a beauty named Cassie. You'd stayed in bed with her till noon and dated her in secret for another few weeks.

At twenty-three, 'Sir' had nothing more to teach you and he couldn't hear the music you'd turn up to the max inside your car as you cruised down the highway looking for a place that still served breakfast at twelve-thirty in the afternoon. You'd sing the words to Blue Oyster Cult's _Don't Fear the Reaper_ and smirk at how little fear you actually did have of the old bastard. If he ever came a-knockin' you'd load his ass with rock salt and call it a day.

'Sir' hadn't sat you down in years to explain what the role of a big brother was. After all, he'd barely acknowledged your little brother's existence. Since slamming the door in Sam's face the night he had walked out, his jaw tightened at the very mention of the youngest family member. He didn't have to tell you the responsibilities of looking after your brother because Sam was able to take responsibility for himself and walk on his own two feet; free of his father even though you still hadn't mastered that skill yourself. You'd fill your imagination with visions of what could happen to Sam now that you weren't around and just hoped that all the years that you'd been there, Sam would be able to carry the torch himself. And as you'd sometimes sat outside in the parking lot, watching Sam walk up the sidewalk, arms laden with books, pushing past people around him, you'd known that nothing would ever touch your brother again because no matter how far away he was, you would always come when he needed you.

At twenty-three, 'Sir' sometimes disappeared but mostly slept next door, always one motel room away while you went through your nightly safety check lists 'windows salted, doors locked, consecrated iron rounds in the bedside table's top drawer, handgun under the bed…check under the bed before you put a handgun there, come on Dean!' Beneath your pillow rested the hunting knife, wrapped tightly in your fist. 'Look brave, dude. That thing doesn't dare show his slimy ass tonight' and you believe yourself, because your intuition never lied.

And in the dark, as you watched the shadows move across your bedroom window and held your hunting knife close beneath your pillow, you knew you were safe. Because 'Sir' has taught you well and he was a room or phone call away. Nothing would happen to you as long as he was around.

**Man man mahn **

1.an adult male person, as distinguished from a boy or woman. 2._Obsolete_. manly character or courage. 3. a person or group asserting authority or power over another, esp. in a manner experienced as being oppressive, demeaning, or threatening, as an employer, the police, or a dominating racial group. 4. to strengthen, fortify, or brace.

**Human hyoo-muhn**

**1.** of, pertaining to, characteristic of, or having the nature of people 2. sympathetic; humane 3.a human being.

**Mortal mawr-tal**

1. subject to death; having a transitory life 2. involving spiritual death 3. having caused or being about to cause death 4.a human being in body and in soul.

"_Your Dad's in here with me, trapped inside his own meat suit."_

Now you are twenty-seven, this man is the person that towers over you; sets the rules, casts his shadow over your trembling, bleeding frame and allows the demon inside of him to tell you in his soft, yet booming voice about how much he loves your brother more then he loves you, and that you are not needed.

Now you are twenty-seven, this man is the person who taught you to fight on your own and listen to your gut. You knew the moment he told you how proud he was of you that something…something wasn't right. He taught you to hold a gun and pull the trigger. He taught you how to scope a target. The memory of facing the bulls-eye across the yard helped guide your hand as you raised the antique colt and aimed at the spot between your father's…this _thing's _eyes, on the bridge of his nose. You can no longer remember what his hands felt like on yours, aiming the weapon with a firm, steady grasp. If you had, maybe your hands wouldn't have trembled so much. You looked at him after, saw the confusion, the hurt, and knew it was only an act because this man wasn't your father. There is no praise, no acknowledgement that you saw through the demon's façade. Because your father would never be proud of you, not when you've become such a screw up

Because this man makes you a screw up. This man makes you screw up so badly you want to scream, because he never saw that all the years of hiding your pain have made you hunger more and more for the scarce amount of good things in your life. You screw up because the mask is slipping. You've begun to show how you really feel. Dad doesn't love you; he hasn't in twenty-three years. You push and push to make him stay; to keep the family together because if you achieve that…if you make the fighting stop and the pain lessen then maybe he'll be proud of you. Maybe then he'll see that sometimes, once or twice, you screw up less then all the other chances he's given you. And this makes you laugh because you know, pressed against the wall with the demon's eyes shinning in your father's face, that if you achieved that, you would achieve the impossible. Because nothing will bring your family together and nothing will win your father's love. You can't bring the joy of rolling in the grass, laughing with your father back, just as you can't make your Mommy alive again. You can't lessen your pain and you sure as hell can't lessen his.

Today your father asked you for his trust, something he never had to ask for before and for once, you didn't give it to him. So the demon inside your old man fought back and pinned you to the wall. His words remind you that there is no fighting back like you did with the older kid and the bully and the biker. His gentle, prodding voice as he leans against you, talking in your ear almost seductively about how he never loved you and he never will, remind you that _he has defeated_ _you_. And when you retaliate weakly, with no real hope of doing more then making him mad, he smacks you back down with a searing pain through your body as spectral fingernails try to pry your still beating heart from your chest. And you've never felt more lost because this time this man's smirk reminds you that you are _beaten_.

Now your twenty-seven, this man is the one who left you at the motel while he headed off after the thing that killed your Mommy. He didn't want you to follow. So you headed off to find him because you needed him and you can't live this life alone. You know how to fix brakesand engines and fuel lines because you had to learn. But how do you fix yourself? He never taught you that, and now your left alone to figure it out. The Impala is now the only thing you feel like you know. It not only gets you from town to town, job to job and hospital to hospital. It is the only one you can talk to about how afraid and lonely you really are, because it's your constant. It's the only one that never leaves you behind. Not having the Impala is like not being able to breathe.

At twenty-seven, this man left you with your knowledge on demons and ghosts and religion. He expected you to look after yourself. At night you lay in bed and dream of the knights and the princesses from stories you haven't heard since you were little; before you became an unwilling soldier in your father's army. There is no armor, so you put up more walls to try and protect the already scarred remnants of the child you once were; before your body and mind were tainted by the demon that really always lived within the man you once called Daddy. You'd sleep till late afternoon, only to be awoken sometimes by the gentle 'Ehm ehm' of some unfortunate woman who you met at a bar and offered to vent your pent up pain upon. They never complained and you; never really understood how they could enjoy it so much when your pain became their pleasure. On your birthday he gave you nothing but his voicemail.

At twenty-seven, this man taught you that music is an out because you can pour all your attention into it until the notes become harder and harder to ignore. You sing the words to Blue Oyster Cult's _Don't Fear the Reaper_ and shudder at the thought of what he'll do when he catches up to you. Because the man you call Dad doesn't have your back anymore.

This man, you realize, never had to teach you how to be a big brother because you never were. You were a father - long after he had stopped being one. You were never really Sam's brother because you did what Dad should have done! You set the rules; you scolded him when he did something wrong. You were the one who taught him how to aim and how to shoot and tickled him until he laughed so hard he cried even when he missed. You were the one who beat up the bullies for him and taught him how to fix a car. You told him bedtime stories and tucked him in at night. And Sam became a man; an independent man through you, even though deep beneath your cocky, self assure swagger, you haven't mastered that skill yourself. You fill your imagination with visions of what you've done and how proud you really are, even as Sam screams your name into the night and the demon in your Dad rams his hooks still further into your soul. Because no matter what this man says, Sammy cares and you realize you've finally done something right.

Now at twenty-seven, this man, your father sleeps inside his own body while you run through your checklist 'windows salted, doors locked, guns cocked and loaded…' but it doesn't matter, because the demon is within the walls. 'Look brave, dude. That thing wants to hurt your family' and you believe yourself, because you're chocking on your own blood.

And as the darkness closes in and your head falls forward onto your chest the shadows move across your father's eyes…not the demon's eyes, your _father's,_ and you are released from your prison. Because this man is mortal…he is human…and only humans and mortal men can love. Only humans and mortal men can defeat the demon inside, when their children finally break the walls and cry. And you do. You finally show him. You finally cry-out with tear-filled eyes and bloody lips. A simple 'Dad…please' and it is through. With Sammy crouching over you, free at last from the demon's hold and your father on the ground, panting and shaking, eyes clear once more, you feel safe.

Because Daddy is finally in the room again and nothing will happen to you as long as he is around.

**The End**

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